


Everything I Meant to Say

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Nessian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-02-02 01:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12716910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: (Modern AU) Cassian sends the wrong message at the wrong time.





	1. I Miss You Too

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt that I just couldn’t resist. Even though I *should* be resisting it, because I have so many other writing projects to do.

Cassian didn’t mean to text her.

Hell, he wasn’t even sure why he had Nesta’s number in the first place. They parted ways six years ago and hadn’t said a word to each other since. The only time he even heard her name was during the holidays, when Feyre and Elain would discretely leave the dinner table to call their sister in the kitchen.

He never failed to notice how Rhys and Azriel often doubled their efforts to distract him while Nesta’s voice could clearly be heard in the other room.

She was always travelling somewhere now. The last he heard, she was in Paris. Or was it Prague? Sometimes, he would see her without meaning to. On a billboard somewhere. Or on the cover of a fashion magazine. Such was the glamorous life of a supermodel.

He should be happy for her.

He _was_ happy for her.

Even when thinking about her still made him mad as hell.

Time heals all wounds, or so the old saying went. You would think six years would be more than enough time to forget the way they used to singe and scorch one another. But if there was one thing he and Nesta were good at, it was wounding each other deeply.

He still carried the scars with him to this day.

To be fair, she was probably still carrying hers too.

It was a thought that never brought him any comfort.

It also shouldn’t have been a surprise that things ended badly between them. Theirs was a break-up you could have written songs about. The kind of songs that won Grammys. Adele could have released an entire _album_ based on the burning highs and simmering lows of their relationship. All they had left were embers and ashes, which still begged the question....

Why the hell did he text her?

Maybe it was because he didn’t mean to.

Maybe it was because he was also drunk.

Maybe it also had something to do with the fact that today was their anniversary and maybe he was always a little more vulnerable this time of year, a little more inclined to do stupid things.

Things like text her in the middle of the night right after getting shitfaced. He'd never done anything like that before, but then again, he had never been alone on this night before.

But Rhys and Feyre were spending the weekend at the cabin, Elain and Azriel were watching a movie downtown, and Mor and Andromache had gone clubbing at Rita’s. Even Amren was out and about with her mysterious boyfriend, probably terrorizing half the city with her antics.

They all invited him to come, of course. Because they were his friends—his family—and they wanted to be supportive. But nothing would make him feel shittier than being the third wheel; of being reminded that out of everyone in their inner circle, he was still alone.

He’s had lovers over the years. Nothing that lasted. But if he were being honest, nothing had really compared to what he and Nesta had. Even though he knew that their relationship was more of a measuring stick in disaster, rather than success. Yet they had almost gone the distance, the two of them. Had almost been serious enough to talk about a house, kids, a wedding...

_Almost._

Almost was the saddest fucking word in the dictionary.

If their relationship could be defined by anything, it was all the layers of could-have-beens, should-have-beens, and might-have-beens that piled up in some dusty and forgotten corner of his heart. A corner that Nesta still laid claim to apparently, since he hadn’t been able to stop himself from scrolling through his contacts that night and pausing on her name.

He had just gotten home and collapsed into bed with the full intention of drifting into oblivion. Though most of the evening was a fog of drinks, pool, and flirtations that went nowhere, there was something niggling at the back of his brain, some vivid memory that made him sit up and open his phone…

The commercial.

That’s right. Nesta was on screen now.

And damn, did she still look beautiful. How was it fair that six years could go by— _six whole years_ —and she could still take his breath away?

The commercial was a fifteen-second blip of dramatic camera angles, expensive dresses, diamonds, and exotic locations. But it was Nesta’s eyes that cut the knees right out from under him. He remembered that lovely, piercing, fiery gaze...how wild it made him in the bedroom...

“It’s your shot, Cas.”

He shook his head, muttering an apology to one of his pool buddies. Then proceeded to order as many drinks as possible until the evening became a blur. But apparently, not enough a blur to stop him from opening up his message history and scrolling through all the terrible things they hurled at each other before everything crashed and burned.

His blood stirred and his teeth bared as he poked and prodded old injuries. The things he said....the things she did...what the hell was he even _doing_? He was about to throw his phone to the other side of the room before his thumb stopped on an old photo that Feyre had sent them.

It was one of the rare photos that had Nesta and Cassian in the same shot.

It was the day at the pier, the year’s first snowfall coating them both like fine white dust. They weren’t even looking at the camera. They were looking at each other. Like they were the only two people in the world.

And there was Nesta, peeking up at him through those thick, gorgeous lashes as he pressed his lips to her forehead. He remembered how easily she fit into the space between his arms, like she was always meant to be there, like she belonged. And he remembered how tightly he held her, like he never ever wanted to let her go.

How were they supposed to know that moment would be their last?

So he did the stupid thing.

He texted her. Three short words. That was it. Consequences be damned.

‘I miss you.’

There, he said it. It was the godawful fucking truth, but he said it. In the morning, he would kick his own ass for it, but right now, he didn’t care.

She probably had men hounding her all day. Wealthier men. Attractive men. Not that that pissed him off or anything. What was _one text_ from an ex-boyfriend who she barely seemed to think about, especially since she _fled the fucking country_ just to get away from him?

What the hell did it matter?

She would probably delete it anyway.

So he threw his hand over his eyes as lay there in bed, bad memories hounding him all through the night as he slipped into a fitful and dreamless sleep. 

* * *

 

The next morning, he woke up with a wicked hangover. It wasn’t unexpected, and it certainly wasn’t his worst one. But he still felt like someone had taken a drill and aimed straight between his eyebrows. Shards of sunlight spilled through the blinds as the noises of the city—sirens, kids, dogs—streamed through his window.

He glanced at his clock. It was a little past nine—which was practically three in the afternoon for him. He had always been an early bird, something that Nesta always hated, but old habits died hard.

_Nesta…_

“Shit.”

He grabbed his phone, which had less than ten percent battery power since he didn’t even have the sense to plug it in last night. There was a bunch of notifications from friends and some less-than-subtle invitations from the women he met at the bar. But there, at the end of it all, was her name.

She texted him back.

Probably to tell him to fuck the hell off.

For a split second, he contemplated deleting it. There was no scenario in which reading it would lead to something good, especially when that scenario involved the two of them.

But fuck it, he opened it anyway. Because he was a sad, pathetic, masochist. And because somehow Nesta, even without being in the same hemisphere, could always get under his skin. 

That goddamn commercial...why didn't Feyre or Elain warn him?

His eyes skimmed over her message. Once, twice, three times.

His heart stuttered and stopped. In fact, it fucking flatlined as he read the words she typed from halfway around the world.

Because of all the things she could have said to him, he certainly wasn't expecting this...

‘I miss you too, Cassian.’


	2. Phantom Pain

“What should I say?”

“What do you want to say?” asked Elain.

If there was one person in the world who knew Nesta better than Cassian did, it was Elain. A very grumpy Elain who didn't appreciate being called over to his apartment so early in the morning, especially after spending a late night with his brother. The only way he could convince her _not_ to say anything to Azriel was to promise to make her breakfast. 

So here they were—mulling over Nesta’s text message over eggs, toast, and coffee. Or rather, Cassian was mulling it over with all the brutality of a coroner examining a murder victim while Elain was mulling it over with all the interest of a tarot reader divining her cards. Just what future did she see for him?

“Cassian,” Elain prodded gently. “What do you want to say?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

In addition to her expertise on all things Nesta, Elain had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to reading people. She could tell their fears, wants, and needs light years before they did. That, mixed in with her kind and generous personality, was what made her one of the most sought after therapists in the city. In fact, it was how she and Azriel first met. With her keen insight and Az’ extraordinary perceptiveness, they could take over the world.  
  
It was a lucky thing then, that they both preferred peace and quiet.

But now Cassian was stalling...

“Maybe I should just leave it alone,” he said, running a hand down his face. “Fuck. This was stupid. I don’t even know why I called. I’m sorry—”

Elain reached over to grab his hand, her grip gentle but firm enough to stop the rising panic in his throat. The panic that always came when he examined his feelings too closely.

It was like touching scarred tissue from an old war wound. Even if it no longer hurt, the memory of acquiring it was enough to make him flinch.

“It’s been six years,” Elain pressed on. “And the question you’re asking me is more than just about what a text message means.” She leaned in. “What you’re _really_ asking me is how to bridge the distance between you and my sister—if it’s even possible, if it’s even worth it. I know there’s a lot of pain between you two. Pain you never even talked about, not really…”

“Elain, no. I can’t...”

“You say you can’t, but the hard truth of the matter is...you want to.” He looked away, ashamed. “You _want_ to talk to her. You want closure. But you owe it yourself—and her—to understand what exactly has been causing you pain.”

Cassian sat back in his chair, the urge to flee coursing through his veins. This was too much. _They_ had been too much. It was why Nesta left. It was why he let her go.

Elain wasn’t wrong, there were a hundred failures and a thousand leagues of faults between them. How could he possibly begin to traverse all that with a single reply?

He had to admit, however, that Elain had a point.

_Damn it._

“You...you know about phantom pain, right?”

Elain nodded, her warm brown eyes patient and reassuring. “Of course.”

“After my last tour of duty, I met up with a buddy of mine from the army. He was the youngest in my platoon and he had a smart mouth.”

A smart mouth that had often been on the receiving end of his fist because of the vulgar comments he made about the picture Cassian kept in his gear. A picture of Nesta. He knew he only did it just to egg him on; build up his lieutenant’s aggression so he could focus on the mission instead of the very real fact that any one of them could die. Still, Cassian had always been territorial when it came to Nesta, who didn’t necessarily discourage that behavior when they were together.

“He, ah, lost one of his limbs after stepping on a landmine in enemy territory. When I saw him a year later, I found out he still had a smart mouth. Said he was glad he only lost a leg and not other _crucial_ parts of his body that didn’t come in twos. Christ.” Cassian swallowed. “I still felt like shit for it. He’s a good guy. Told me that I was still an overbearing asshole who worried too much about other people. Then he said the only thing that bothered him was the phantom pain. That feeling that something's hurting you even when it’s…not there anymore.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

“Is that how you feel about Nesta? A phantom pain?”

He shrugged, choking off the well of agony that burned deep inside his chest. Agony he thought he buried a long time ago, with a lock and a key and a shovel. But apparently, he hadn’t buried it deep enough. Because as soon as he looked its way, it flared and blazed and roared at him. To do what, he didn’t know. All he wanted was for things to be simple.

But things were never simple when it came to Nesta.

_You’re a coward, Cassian...a goddamned coward._

_We’re getting nowhere. This conversation is over._

_Don’t walk away from me!_

_I said this is over._

He shut his eyes against the painful memory. Of the tears, rage, and absolute _devastation_ in Nesta’s eyes as he slammed the door to her apartment behind him. He had spent the rest of that night taking out his fury on a punching bag until his knuckles grew bloody and the bag was nothing but splinters and sand on the floor. Then he got rip-roaring drunk off whatever pisswater beer was in his fridge and was only blissfully carried into a dark void when dawn came around.

A week later, after marching up to her door armed with both apologies and imaginary rebuttals, he found out her apartment was empty.

Nesta was gone.

She left him.

She never came back.

“Cassian?”

He opened his eyes, a hitch in his breath as he said his next words. “Yeah. Kinda like a phantom pain...except Nesta isn’t really gone, is she? I mean, she’s still here.”

“True.”

There were still times at night, when he was in bed, where his fingers would treacherously reach for the other side, seeking the warmth of the person he loved so much, only to find cold and empty space.

“But can you still feel grief even if the person is still alive?”

“Absolutely,” said Elain. “When a person that mattered to you is no longer in your life, living or otherwise, it’s still a loss. What you and Nesta _both_ experienced was a loss. In fact, the loss could be harder to untangle because of the...ambiguity. The both of you are still here. And there are many things between you that are still unresolved.”

“So you’re saying I should try to resolve them?”

Elain gave him a faint smile. “I’m saying that the only way to start unravelling this is to be completely honest with her. However you choose to do that is up to you.”

“So what? I should just tell her ‘Hey sorry, I was drunk. I feel awkward and weird and a little upset, but goddamn, I still think about you. Do you still think about me? Also, what the hell was up with that commercial?’”

Because _that_ wouldn’t send Nesta running for the hills.

She squeezed his hand. “Cassian, if you want her to lay down her walls, then you have to lay down your weapons. Just tell her the truth. She’ll appreciate it. Trust me.”

He arched a brow. “The truth, huh? Sounds like my brother might be rubbing off on you.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I learned from the best.”

* * *

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful, save for the complete havoc and inner turmoil that every waking moment brought the longer Cassian looked at his phone.

_For fuck’s sake. It was just a goddamn text message._

But still, he paced. Then sat. Then got up and paced again.

Every time he started to say something, he erased it. Every time he started calling her, he ended it. Although every instinct was screaming at him to let sleeping dogs lie, he couldn’t ignore Elain’s advice. This could be the only window he had to set things right. Even if Nesta didn’t want to forgive him, he at least wanted to know if she was okay. 

If she had moved on. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe he _was_ a coward.

But then his phone started to buzz, and the blood began pounding in his ears when he saw who the call was coming from.

_Nesta..._

He nearly dropped his phone as he cursed. “Hello?”

At first, he couldn’t hear much of anything. Just a steady breathing on the other end of the line. But he could recognize that breathing anywhere, had fallen asleep to the rise and fall of its cadence.

There were voices in the background speaking in a foreign language. But they were muffled, as though Nesta had ducked somewhere private to talk.

“Cassian?”

It was like someone pressed a knife to his heart.

How long had it been since she said _his name?_

“Hey, sweet—” He stopped himself. “Hey, Nesta. It’s...been awhile.”

A short pause.

“Yes,” she said, softly. “It has.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The both of them caught in the gravity of the moment like insects preserved in amber.

_Six whole years…_

_How much had changed since they last saw each other?_

“Can you hear me okay?” she asked. “The signal here isn’t very good. I hope I didn’t wake you. It’s still noon here.”

“No, it’s fine.” It could be three in the morning for all he cared. “I can hear you fine.”

_Please, keep talking…_

Of all the things that Cassian missed, it was the sound of her voice that did him in. He adored how prim and proper she was, how the octaves would rise when she was happy or passionate. Or when she laughed...oh god, he _loved_ making her laugh. Feyre once claimed that he was the only one to ever do so and he never felt so proud.

“Listen,” she said. “I’m coming back to the States in a few days. I was going to see Feyre and Elain, but I...would you…?”  
  
_Would he...?_

A sharp intake of breath. As though Nesta was steeling herself for whatever was coming next.

“Would you....like to meet up, maybe? Over coffee?”

Another pause. Another silence. Another thousand and one decisions made in a single second. Whatever he said, there’d be no coming back from it. No matter what the outcome.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d love to.”


	3. Truce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, my loves.

Cassian had pictured their reunion a hundred different ways over the years.

Some were hopeful. They would bump into each other on the subway and lock eyes across a crowded train cart. Recognition would dawn on both their faces, igniting that familiar spark. Maybe they would fall in love again—or at least, become friends again; the years of heartbreak and baggage thrown to the wayside. Cue a 1980s love ballad.

More often—and more realistically—he imagined them crossing paths at a bar they both liked. He would catch her chatting with some fifth avenue stockbroker who would be feeling up her ass like she was merchandise. Cassian would staunch the urge to break a cue stick across the stockbroker’s face by making some shitty comment to Nesta, all cocky smiles and arrogance.

Then she would throw her drink in his face, glass included. Fade to black.

But in none of those admittedly pathetic and vivid scenarios did he ever imagine _this_.

“Would you like to place an order while you wait?”

Cassian glanced at his impeccably dressed server and stiffened.

When Nesta suggested meeting at this particular cafe in midtown, he had no idea what to expect. But as soon as he stepped over the red-carpeted threshold, he wished he had.

This was definitely _not_ a Starbucks.

The host had taken off his shabby leather jacket and guided him to an private back room with plush seating and gilded furniture. The silverware alone could have paid his rent for the entire year. The menu—one page, single-sided—didn’t even include prices. Everything was crisp, polished, and set apart with exact and even measurements.

Cassian was afraid to touch anything. He’d never felt so out of place in his entire life.

As if sensing his hesitation, his server leaned in to whisper. “There’s no need to worry about the bill, sir. Miss Archeron is a patron we hold in very high regard. She said you can order anything you like. ”

 _Anything he’d like?_ He couldn’t even read half of the listed entrees.

But the server only gave him a patient smile and said, “If you don’t object, I can bring over a coffee and bourbon. It’s no trouble.”

Cassian almost asked him to hold the coffee and get the bourbon straight, but it was barely past noon and he didn’t think Nesta would appreciate him getting plastered before she arrived. So instead he nodded and the server marched away like it was his personal mission to cater to his every whim.

_Christ, what had he gotten himself into?_

The thought gnawed at Cassian as he checked his phone.

Five minutes after. Ten minutes after. Fifteen minutes after...

Nesta was late. She was never late. At least not in the time that he’d known her.

Worry, dread, and irritation churned inside him like the world’s worst mental health cocktail.

Had something happened? Should he call her? Would that seem too eager? Had she picked this place to throw him off balance?

This six-star cafe wasn’t exactly neutral territory—this was _her_ territory. One of the many tangible pieces of evidence of how amazing her life was now that he wasn’t in it.

Cassian sighed, willing himself to calm down.

He once had a sergeant that told him that the key to winning any battle was knowing everything about the field. Maybe the reason why he was so nervous was because there were too many variables at play, too many unknowns. He and Nesta were practically strangers now. Would they have anything left in common?

Did they really have anything in common to begin with?

 _Maybe this was a mistake._  
  
He checked his phone again, which now read twenty minutes after.

But this time, Nesta left a message.

_‘Be there soon. Sorry - work and traffic.’_

Cassian didn’t know if that made him feel more anxious or relieved. Somehow, Nesta could always inspire both. Maybe things hadn't changed so much, after all...

He was a third of the way done with his coffee and bourbon by the time he heard a familiar stride approach the table. It was the heels. Nesta always loved wearing those gorgeous fuck-me heels. They were her one guilty pleasure…and his too. Thankfully, he was able to shake off the unbidden thought like a flea before Nesta rounded the corner.

And this time, it _was_ just like the movies.

Time stopped as they held each other’s gaze. She looked the same...and yet different. He always imagined her looking exactly like she did in one of those glossy, airbrushed spreads. All done up and unattainable.

But no, she was still his Nesta.

Or just Nesta.

Her hair looked a little shorter. She was wearing it half up in that messy way he liked. It reminded him of the lazy mornings they spent together at his apartment. She was always so fussy about her hair; could spend _hours_ blowing it out or braiding it in his bathroom. So whenever she didn’t do it, it was an unspoken signal that she would rather stay in bed all day—preferably with him.

There were other things that didn’t change. The elegant planes of her face. The fullness of her lips. The collarbones peeking up from the neck of her white blouse. Lord, those collarbones used to drive him _crazy_. But not as much as that dimple in the corner of her mouth that never seemed to disappear, even when she didn’t smile. And the little dusting of kissable freckles across her nose...

How could he have ever thought those magazines did her justice?

There was one detail, however, that was different. One that he noted immediately: her eyes.

That steely blue gaze was always as sharp as a razor, ready to cut anyone down like stalks of wheat. They burned right through him whether she was angry or not. They were like chipped pieces of ice on a regular day—a broadsword on another.

But strangely enough, the cold fire in them seemed...dimmer, somehow. Softer. Wary. Cautious. Cassian didn’t know what to make of it.

He wasn’t even sure if he remembered how to breathe.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

He stood up from his chair, remembering his manners. What should he do now? Shake her hand?

But then Nesta reached for him herself, wrapping her slender arms around his middle.

He could have sworn something inside him broke. Because suddenly, they weren’t in a private room in some ritzy ass cafe. Now, they were back in his living room, when Nesta wrapped her arms around him just like this, as they swayed back and forth to no music save for each other’s heartbeat.

_I missed you..._

Cassian choked off the instinct to blurt those words aloud, afraid of shattering the moment.

Instead, he returned her embrace, trying _very hard_ not to tuck her against him. Because he knew that if he did, he wouldn’t want to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled against the collar of his shirt.

He tensed. “For what?”

“For being late,” she said, pulling back.

_Oh. Right._

“Don’t worry about it.”

They sat down across from each other as the server came by with another coffee and bourbon for Nesta and a refill for Cassian. Nesta greeted and thanked him in a language he didn’t recognize, then recited her order without looking at the menu.

“I ordered us some pastries,” she said, when the server flocked away. “You’ll like them.”

There was no bossiness in her tone. None of the spoiled haughtiness he’d come to associate her with. Just...confidence. Just the ease of being happy where she was and the gratefulness that she was sharing this experience with him. Cassian didn’t know what to make of this either.

“You look good,” she told him.

Did he? Because he felt like utter crap. He had spent the last several days preparing himself for a confrontation he was sure would erupt. Because despite his hope and expectations, Nesta had always been unpredictable. But that was the old Nesta. This new Nesta however, made him feel guilty as fuck for making assumptions.

“You look good too,” he said.

_Fucking poetry._

The conversation went a little bit more smoothly after the pleasantries. For Cassian, it felt like trying to learn about a different person entirely. As if he were on a first date. They stuck to safe subjects—like the weather and family. Or rather, their mutual family. The details of which were fairly well known to both of them. Still, it was fun to compare notes.

Feyre was still finishing up art school. Rhys was still finishing up business law and was planning to intern with his father over the summer—his father was still a prick, by the way. Elain was still working at the clinic downtown, but was thinking about opening up her own practice. Amren just got a job as a curator at the uptown history museum. And Azriel was still doing some security consulting work for Rhys’ father.

“Security consulting?” asked Nesta.

“Just a fancy word for corporate espionage.”

Cassian would know—he occasionally freelanced on some of the assignments that needed more brute force than finesse.

“And how’s Mor?”

“Mor?” Cassian echoed.

Mor had always been a sensitive subject between them—which was understandable. He _did_ sleep with her at some point before he and Nesta got together, and it was always a point of contention between them.

“Mor’s good. She has a girlfriend now. I think they’re pretty serious.”

Nesta smiled. A genuine one. The kind that always stopped his heart. “That’s good. I’m happy for her.”

“And what about you?” he asked. “How are you doing?”

Nesta’s smile froze. “Better,” she said. “I’m doing better.”

He frowned. “Is everything okay?”

It was very difficult to imagine things _not_ being okay. She seemed to have everything she wanted: a high-profile career, more money than she could ever spend, the ability to travel all over the world. From what he heard, she was already a very popular icon in Europe and was starting to gain some recognition in the States—if that commercial was anything to go by.

“Everything’s fine,” she said. “It’s just...work can get overwhelming sometimes.”

“How so? Isn’t it basically just playing dress up?”

Nesta’s face faltered and he immediately wished he could take back what he said. Just reel in those idiotic words like a goddamn fishing line. 

_Why the hell did he have to go and say something like that?_

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean...I don’t want to belittle what you do...”

“No, it’s all right,” she said. Though by her even tone, he could tell that it wasn’t and wished more than anything that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “I get that question a lot, actually. Mostly from journalists who are trying to be provocative. But I can see where they’re coming from.” She circled a perfectly manicured nail around the rim of her coffee cup. “You’re not wrong. Fashion _is_ a little like playing dress up. But it’s not about the clothes that I’m selling. It’s about the fantasy.”

“Fantasy?”

“You’d be surprised at how many people are willing to pay for a well done fantasy,” she said. “When I’m behind the camera, I can be whoever they need me to be. The girl next door. The other woman. The faery queen. Whatever role people need to project themselves on. To escape from reality just for a little while.”

She paused, clearly waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t know what to say.

Who was he to know or judge what she did? 

“I’m still sorry,” he said, finally. “For my comment earlier. I didn’t mean to sound like an ass.”

“I know you didn’t mean it,” she told him.

Cassian swallowed. He was used to verbal sparring matches. He had no idea what to do with this.

He never imagined being _so awkward_ around her. Angry yes, awkward as fuck—no. 

“Cassian,” she said, pulling him into the present. “You probably already know this, but I didn’t ask you to come here just for coffee.”

He braced himself. This was it. This was the part where she told him she was dating someone else. Maybe they were serious enough to be engaged. Maybe they were serious enough to already be married—though he didn’t see a ring on her finger. But Nesta was never one for tradition. In any case, he wasn’t prepared for how those thoughts made him feel like was spiraling into a black hole.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “I wanted to apologize...for shutting you out of my life.”

Something twisted inside him. Hard and piercing. As though a shard of the residual anger he had been holding onto had been plucked from his heart.

“Nesta...I…”

“It wasn’t fair of me to do that,” she pressed on. “After your last message....I realized that I was being foolish. We have the same friends. The same family. You’re _still_ my family, despite everything that happened.”

“Nesta,” he said, willing his voice to remain steady. “It...it wasn’t just you. I didn’t…”

There were so many things he wanted to say, had rehearsed them in mind countless times over.

_So why couldn’t he say them now?_

“It wasn’t just you. I did some shitty things too. And it wasn’t like I was…”

He stopped, unable to go on.

She reached over the table to grab his hand, twining her fingers around his. The warmth and feel of it was so familiar, _so right_ , that he thought he was going to die.

“Can we...can we call a truce? Start over? As friends?” Silver lined her eyes and Cassian felt like he was drowning and gasping for air all at once. He didn’t want her to cry. Ever. “I was so angry,” she said. “For such a long time, I was _so_ angry. At you, at my family, at the world. I just...I don’t want to be angry anymore. Please.”

Cassian swallowed. He didn’t want to be angry anymore either.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s start over.”

She smiled—another real smile—and his heart broke a little more.

“Good. I was thinking...are you doing anything tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “I tend to be pretty free these days.”

“Would you like to come by the studio? I’m doing a shoot. I was going to ask Elain and Feyre to come, but neither of them can make it.”

Should he? If he did, it would open a new door to another set of unknowns—another set of mysteries and questions that terrified him more than anything else.

But...he would at least be moving forward.

 _They_ would be moving forward.

“Sure,” he said. “I can be there.”


	4. Clean Slate

It had been raining the day Nesta decided to leave Cassian.

The memory was as clear and sharp as broken glass. The shards of it buried so deeply in her heart that the wound had festered and spread. As the years passed, the wound would scar over, but the pain...the pain was constant.

Sometimes, the pain felt fresh.

She remembered how the world outside her window matched her mood to perfection: cold and dark and miserable. The anger brewing inside her was a living thing, pulling at her limbs like they were on strings. It directed her every thought and every motion.

Everything inside her was screaming to get away.

Away from the city.

Away from him, especially.

So she did.

It took her less than a day to make her decision, a day where her mind kept playing their last argument on loop. Her, screaming at him not to walk away. Him, walking out and slamming the door so hard the hinges shuddered. Their arguments had always been like that: a raging inferno; their fire and passion equally matched. But this was the first time Cassian had ever walked away from her.

The first time he had ever _left_.

The blow hit her like a knife to the gut.

He always told her would never walk away. And until that day, he kept that promise. She was too much; she had always been too much...she burned and burned and burned with all she felt and all she saw. But Cassian assured her that he could handle her moods, her temper, her walls...

 _You’re worth it_ , he told her. _You’ve always been worth it_.

Maybe it was a lie they both believed.

Once she made up her mind, everything fell into place. She emailed her landlord, paid out her rent, and began packing up her belongings. She didn’t want to carry much, so she gave whatever she didn’t need to her sisters and sold off the rest. Later, she would use the money to buy a ticket out of the city. She did it quickly, with absolutely no consideration to the fallout.

 _You’re making a mistake_ , said Feyre.

 _This isn’t fair to him_ , added Elain.

But Nesta didn’t feel like being fair. She didn’t feel like she owed him anything, not even an explanation. It would be a long time before she would come to terms with how she left things. Like a thief in the dead of night. Like a coward.

And isn’t that what she called him when he told her “this was over”?

_You’re a coward, Cassian…a goddamned coward._

Christ.

“You’re frowning.”

She opened her eyes to glance at her reflection. Alis, her make-up artist, had paused in dusting her cheekbones with blush to point out the deep crease forming between her brows.

“Sorry,” said Nesta, smoothing out her expression into something bland.

“Got a lot on your mind?” asked Alis, resuming her finishing touches.

“Always,” she said.

Alis smirked. “How was coffee with the ex?”

“About as awkward as I expected,” said Nesta. “I took your advice and was honest with him. Seeing him again…” Her eyes shuttered. “It was fine, all things considered. But I can tell he’s really conflicted. And why wouldn’t he be? We don’t know each other anymore. It’s like we're starting all over.”

“Mmm,” said Alis. “But that’s a good thing, right? Clean slate?”

_I miss you..._

Nesta shrugged. “I’m glad he’s willing to try, it’s just—”

“You’re thinking too much,” said Alis, gently tapping her nose with the end of her brush. “He’s coming to the photoshoot today, isn’t he? That’s progress.”

It _was_ progress. But that wasn’t was Nesta was afraid of. No, her doubts and fears centered on something else entirely. She was about to tell Alis as much when Vassa flew into her trailer, eyes wild and short of breath.

“We’re almost done,” said Alis.

“Glad to hear it,” the redhead said dryly. “But we’ve run into a little problem on set.”

* * *

 

Something wasn’t right.

Cassian couldn’t put his finger on it, but he couldn’t deny his feeling off-kilter after meeting with Nesta. Seeing her again, after all this time...he didn’t have the words for it. Even after six years, Nesta could mix a cocktail of heady emotions within him: regret, sorrow, even hope.

But hope for _what_? Closure? Reconciliation? They had left on such an ugly note the last time they saw each other. That she was all smiles and apologies now made him feel...not suspicious, but confused. Nesta was never quick to forgive and never one to let go of a grudge. At least, not easily.

It was a thought that made him feel guilty. His expectations of how she would react were based on someone who existed six years ago. They were younger then, and more naive. They were also each other’s first serious relationship and they had both handled that commitment poorly.

He would have liked to think that they were both older and wiser, that healing the rift between them was possible. But could it really be that easy? Could Nesta have changed that much? Was he being unfair in questioning her intent? The unknowns tore at him even as Nesta hugged him goodbye and called him a cab—and paid for it too.

Now he was waiting on the curb of the street outside his apartment. She had texted him that morning to let him know that a town car was picking him up to drive him to the studio. _A town car._

She didn’t need him anymore. That much was clear. Besides, what could he possibly offer her? Nesta was one of the most fiercely independent women he knew, and her success was nothing short of remarkable. Some part of him always knew she was destined for greater things; that she was a woman who was _going_ places.

And here he was, standing still.

He had always been standing still.

It was part of the reason why she left.

A cheery ‘ding’ from his phone told him that the town car was about a minute away. He could see it coming down his street, its sleek lines and platinum silver paint job sticking out like a sore thumb against the dull urban backdrop of his neighborhood.

The uneasy and restless feeling dogged him even after he settled into the heated leather seating. The driver told him that they were headed towards the park, near the bridge that overlooked the river.

The very same spot where Cassian first told Nesta that he loved her….

So if he thought he was nervous and on edge before, it was nothing compared to the roiling hurricane of anxiety he felt when the stone bridge came into view.

Once again, he was in way over his fucking head.

They parked off to the side of the set, which was a flurry of activity. A flock of assistants and crewmen flitted from trailer to trailer. A line of high-end cameras and expensive lighting equipment was set up at a sectioned off corner of the park, the majority of them facing the bridge. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that they had set up the photoshoot this close to sunset. Their city was _famous_ for its sunsets and looked even more spectacular when night fell.

The driver handed him a V.I.P. badge and directed him to the biggest trailer towards the end of the lane. Nesta’s trailer. As Cassian drifted through the crowds, he took stock of the other models being led from one place to another and registered something else…

They were all dressed like they were part of a wedding party.

So when Nesta emerged from her trailer looking like the proverbial _goddess_ of brides—decked in layers and layers of rich white fabric and intricate crystal beading—it was all he could do to not have a heart attack on sight.

In his secret heart of hearts, he had always thought Nesta would make a beautiful bride.

But the reality of it was so, so, _so_ much better than the fantasy.

And that much more painful, if the dull ache in his chest was anything to go by.

“You made it,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. As though she couldn’t believe he was actually here. That she seemed more surprised that he showed up on set versus showing up yesterday for coffee was something Cassian took note of.

Was she still reeling from what he said about the new world she inhabited now? The one he had little to no understanding of? The one where he didn’t fit in?

She glided towards him with a graceful ease that only she could have ever mastered. His heart caught in his throat as he took in her devastating face, framed by a crown of expertly woven curls and braids. A few strands fell near the corner of her blue-grey eyes, made more intense by a deep plum shimmer. The veil she wore trailed behind her exposed back. And even though it had been over half a decade since he last saw her, he would bet every last penny in his bank account that he could still trace all his favorite freckles.

At some point, he started to breathe again.

But if Nesta saw him falter, she at least gave him the courtesy of not calling him out on it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said quietly. Her smile was shy, tentative. Those full lips coated in a deep, distracting, kissable red. “My groom went missing. So we may have to wait a while.”

The words fell over him like a bucket of ice water. “I’m sorry. Your what?”

“The _groom_ ,” drawled a red-haired woman just behind Nesta. “Fucking Eris Vanserra. Probably sleeping off his hangover at some upscale bordello. Ugh, male models are _the worst_.”

Nesta sighed. “This is Vassa. She’s our creative director and also a major pain in my ass.”

“Hey!”

“But she also keeps me in business, so there’s that.”

“Better,” added Vassa.

Next to Nesta, Vassa seemed younger and almost coltish. But the penetration of her assessing gaze gave off the free-spirited vibe of an "old soul." Also, for someone who was supposedly a director, Vassa didn’t seem to dress the part. With her knit cap, vintage polka-dotted skirt, and combat boots, her entire being seemed to exude a carelessness that was almost cocky. It was...unexpected, but refreshing.

“So this is him?”

Vassa peered above her Clark Kent-ish glasses to look him over. And over. What exactly did Nesta say about him? And just how many of these people knew?

“Yes, this is Cassian,” said Nesta, her voice oddly neutral.

Vassa looked him up and down once more, her blue eyes lit with a manic gleam. Cassian fought the urge to squirm, digging his hands into the pocket of his jeans when she began to circle him like a shark, making “mmm” and “hmm” noises that did nothing for his nerves.

“I have an idea,” said Vassa, finally.

“Absolutely not,” said Nesta, the tone in her voice so sharp and cutting that it stirred something inside him.

 _There_ was the fiery Nesta he knew.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Vassa. “It’s a brilliant idea and you know it.”

“ _Vassa_ ,” Nesta snarled.

The redhead only grinned.

“Say there Cassian, my new buddy, my new friend, my new pal.” He gulped as she placed an arm on his shoulder. “How would you like to be a supermodel for a day?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Cassian plays the role of Nesta’s groom, plus more revelations about Nessian’s breakup...


	5. It's Time to Let Go

“Your ex is hotter than the devil. I’ve met the devil, so I would know.”

“Vassa…”

“Seriously, those abs. You could probably bounce a quarter off of them.”

“ _Vassa_ …”

“And don’t get me started on that delicious ass. Just looking at it makes you want to take a bite—”

“Vassa!”

“Ow!”

Nesta brandished the rolled up magazine once more, smacking Vassa at the back of her head and then again on the bridge of her nose. Unfortunately, this only widened Vassa’s smirk to a degree that was positively illegal. Rhysand was probably the only other person in the world who could look so immorally self-satisfied.

“You’re lucky you’re my favorite,” said Vassa, her voice sweet and indulgent. Nesta heard her use that tone often when she was scolding her pet Pomeranians. “Well, my _second_ favorite now that Cassian is here.”

“I can hit you harder, you know.”

“Go ahead,” said Vassa. “You know it’s one of my kinks.”

Nesta groaned as she collapsed into a folding chair set up behind the cameras, looking for all the world like an exasperated heap of silk and chiffon and rattled nerves. She was Bridezilla come to life. Except she wasn’t a bride. Cassian wasn’t a groom. This was not an actual wedding.

So why did she feel like she was drowning? All the training, coaching, and maneuvering she endured. What had it all been for? How could her professionalism crumble so easily?

Nesta knew the answers to those questions. She just didn’t want to admit them.

What she wanted most was a drink.

“I bet you got a standing ovation every time you had sex,” said Vassa. “He looks like he’d be an _animal_ in bed.”

“Keep your voice down,” she snarled, casting a furtive glance at her trailer. The place where Cassian was currently being fitted, most likely against his will.

To her complete astonishment, he had gone along with Vassa’s wild scheming with barely any resistance. But in all the time they had been together, Nesta had never even seen him wear _slacks_ , let alone a five-thousand-dollar tuxedo.

“Why the hell would I do that?” she asked. “Does he even speak Russian?”

She had a point. They had been arguing in Vassa’s native tongue for the better part of an hour now.

“No,” said Nesta. “You’re just giving me a headache.”

“No, Nestachka,” she said, smoothing down her olive green cardigan. “I’m giving you _perspective_. Your headache is simply the result of your brain trying to comprehend the breadth of my wisdom in this.”

“What wisdom?”

This time, it was Nesta who was on the receiving end of a rolled up magazine.

“Remember, what you told me all those years ago?” asked Vassa. “It was your first shoot. I had never seen anyone look so nervous. So raw. So vulnerable.” She removed her glasses, those vivid blue eyes piercing Nesta to the core. “I wanted to capture that on camera. So I asked you a question. Do you remember what it was?”

Of course she did.

“I asked you what you were running away from,” she went on. “I’ll be gracious and let you fill in the rest.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I enjoy annoying you—and because this is good for your character development.”

Nesta glared, but eventually relented. When it came to making a point, Vassa could be even more stubborn than she was. And that was saying something. 

“Myself,” Nesta said softly. “I told you I was running from myself.”

“Are you running from yourself now?”

Nesta looked away, unable to stem the hot burn of shame.

“I don’t want to be that person anymore,” she said eventually, her voice tired and flat. Exhausted, she was _exhausted_ with herself. “I don’t want to be angry and hateful.”

“You aren’t,” said Vassa. “You haven’t been that way for a while now. But…”

 _But_...

Nesta felt her chin lift; Vassa’s grip steady and sure. “You’re still afraid, Nesta Archeron. It’s time to let go.”

She scoffed. “Easier said than done.”

“Many worthwhile things are hard,” said Vassa. “But probably not as hard as Cassian’s biceps. Yum.” She flicked Nesta’s nose. “Now stop scowling. It’s your wedding day and I’ve had enough of your cold feet.”

* * *

Of course Cassian looked stunning. The deadly kind of stunning. The kind of stunning that could steal your breath and stop your heart.

Alis and her team of assistants were ordered to pull out all the stops. But it wasn’t as if they had to do much work. According to the staff, Cassian was “a natural.” There was very little to touch up and definitely _nothing_ to conceal. Not even the distinctive scar that ran along his eyebrow, which only made him look more rakish in his suit.

“I would never dream of covering _that_ ,” Alis had swooned. “Among other things.”

Nesta had never wished so hard for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. But if Cassian noticed that she was falling apart while the entire set was panting after him, he didn’t say anything. Which was odd. Normally, he would be hamming it up. Making jokes about his good looks and irresistible appeal.

Perhaps Nesta wasn’t the only one who changed over the last six years.

She took stock of his broad shoulders, his tall frame. The suit was technically fitted for Eris, who was slightly leaner in build. Fortunately, their sizes were close enough that Cassian just filled in all the right places—and then some.

Damn it.

His night-dark hair was freed from its signature  knot, cascading down in barely tamed waves above his shoulders. Vassa called it “sex hair,” the kind of hair that always made it look like he had just recovered from a long, hard ride in the bedroom. Nesta remembered how much she loved to run her fingers through it...especially in the bedroom.

“You don’t have to do this,” she told him again, perhaps for the thousandth time. “I can tell Vassa we can still wait for Eris.”

“We can’t wait for Eris!” called Vassa from the other end of the set. How she was able to hear her from that distance, Nesta didn't know. “We’re losing all our good lighting!”

Nesta sighed. “Sorry. She can be a handful.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Nesta tilted her head at his playful tone. “Likewise.”

He laughed. A hearty loud bark that made Nesta’s chest _ache_ with familiarity.

“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” she asked.

She half expected him to scold her for fretting too much. They had always been that way: her fretting and him fussing. The combination of which either ended up in an explosion—or climax, the kind that came in multiples. Sort of the same difference when she thought about it.

She should stop thinking about it.

Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic he hadn’t been able to shake no matter how much she wheedled him for it. She never noticed how much more endearing it made him. This big, strong, handsome brute standing about all flustered.

“I’m not going to lie. I didn’t expect today to end up like it did, but…” he trailed off, then gave her a faint smile. “If it gives me a glimpse into something that’s important to you, then it’s worth it.”

It was a miracle her knees didn’t buckle from underneath her.

“Cassian—”

“All right you two,” cried Vassa. “Save that unresolved sexual tension for the camera. Stand over by your markers on the bridge. I need to get that sunset in the background while it’s still there, you hear me? That sunset’s going to pay everyone’s rent for a year.”

“So bossy,” whispered Cassian.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” said Nesta.

“I heard that!”

He beamed another charming grin in Nesta’s direction, then held out his elbow for her to hang onto. She was surprised at how easy it was to accept the gesture, like they were always meant to fit. If he had any idea how he was affecting her right now...

“I’m glad,” he said, looking ahead as they approached the crest of the stone bridge.

“About what?” she asked, as they stood over their markers.

“That you have friends like Vassa to look out for you,” he said, his hazel eyes softening. “That you had someone to lean on after I...when you…” His lips twisted around the words. “Damn it. How do I always end up saying the wrong thing?”

“It’s all right,” she said, and she meant it. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

He leaned closer, his size and scent overwhelming her to the point where she nearly shuttered her eyes. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, a million different technicolor memories running through her. Good and bad. All the little moments that made up the two of them.

“I do,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Nesta…”

_Click. Click. Click._

Cassian looked up, startled. “What—?”

A slow clap from Vassa. “Have I mentioned that the chemistry between you two is _insane_? Losing Eris might have been the best thing to happen to me today. Ugh, the way you two look at each other...”

Cassian cleared his throat while Nesta suddenly found the view of the river incredibly interesting.

“These test shots are pretty fantastic,” she said. “I know it’s hard, but don’t make out yet, okay? Hold steady while we get the rest of the wedding party ready. ”

A few moments passed in which they exchanged shy glances.

“This is really weird,” Cassian said finally.

“It is,” Nesta agreed.

“We would have _never_ gotten married this way,” he said, teeth bared in a brash grin.

“I...would have to agree,” said Nesta, unable to stop a hesitant smile from blooming across her face. Neither she or Cassian had been fond of large and ostentatious affairs. If anything, they would have had a small, civil ceremony. Their closest friends and family in attendance.

Cassian laughed. “The fact that you agree with me is even weirder.”

Could a smile’s power increase in kilowatts? If so, that’s what Nesta’s smile felt like. It was both natural and foreign at the same time. She had given a hundred thousand smiles on screen and on camera. A smile of every size and shade.

Almost none of them were as real as the one she was wearing now.

“This is a very strange day,” she said.

“I have an idea,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Do you want to play a really, really, _really_ awful trick on our family?”

Nesta’s eyes brightened. “Absolutely.”

“Okay,” he said. “Come here.”

She ducked underneath one of his outstretched arms until she found herself tucked into his side. If his scent had overwhelmed her before, it completely overpowered her now. She raised one of her hands to grab the other lapel, to make sure the studio-issued diamond ring could be seen in the selfie Cassian took.

“They’re never going to believe this,” said Cassian as he pulled away. Nesta felt the absence all too keenly.

“We look pretty convincing,” she said. “Feyre and Elain don’t know that I was doing a bridal shoot.”

He showed her the picture and it nearly broke her heart. Surely, the rest of the crew heard the loud crack that rent through her body?

“We clean up pretty nice,” he said.

They looked so happy. They _were_ happy.

She took his hand, interlacing her long fingers with his. “We do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: The photoshoot continues, Vassa totally ships Nessian, and...Eris returns on set.


	6. I'm Sorry

It only took a few seconds for Cassian’s phone to explode with text messages.

“Fake news,” said Azriel.

“This is fake right?” echoed Rhys. “Do they have that suit in my size?”

“I *almost* believed this,” said Feyre. “Smh.”  

“This is SO mean,” said Elain, her declaration followed by furious emojis.

“I don’t even know where to begin with this,” said Mor.

“Pretty heartless,” wrote Amren. “Good job.”

Cassian scrolled through the endless banter that followed. Most of it was just variations of the beginning of the thread. Then he mulled over something Feyre sent him privately.

“I know you two are over,” she began. “And I’m glad you’re still close enough to be complete assholes to your family, but NGL...I wish this was real.”

He sighed, pocketing his phone. He didn’t want to think too deeply on whether he agreed with Feyre or not. The answer was kept behind a door he swore to never pry open the moment Nesta vanished from his life.

Speaking of which…

Nearby, the rapid _click-click-click_ of the cameras geared into overdrive as his ex stood next to her formation of "bridesmaids." Like her, they were tall, stylish, and criminally gorgeous. But as long as Nesta was in the shot, she stole the entire show. Though it wasn’t her beauty that made her stand out. It was her presence. She was _commanding_. When she was there, you couldn’t look at anyone else. That went doubly so for Cassian. Tearing his eyes away from her somehow felt like a cardinal sin.

And yet…

The doubt that had been stalking his periphery all day began to slink into focus. No matter how phenomenal Nesta was at her job, he still had a hard time believing she actually _enjoyed_ this. The Nesta he remembered abhorred taking pictures, especially if they were of her. He’d been on recon missions more difficult than getting Nesta to pose for five minutes—let alone smile like she meant it.

That’s why most of the photos he had of her were candid, taken during moments when her mind was elsewhere. One of his old favorites (that he didn’t have the heart to delete) was of her reading. He remembered finding her on his balcony, draped in one of his T-shirts. It always made him embarrassingly possessive to see her wear his things and she knew it.

The sunlight had brought out all the gold in her hair, the color in her cheeks, the kissable bow of her mouth. She had looked so soft, so at ease. Her long, bare legs were curled beneath her in an adorable, girlish way. He remembered how much he wanted to wrap them around his waist and carry her back to bed...

It was her expression that he remembered most of all. He had only ever seen it when she was reading something smutty. He wondered if she still read those kinds of books. Or if they were one of the many things she left behind once she started a new life.

Again, he marveled at how different she was now. Somehow in the span of six years, she had been reforged and refined. The Nesta from before their fallout was all sharp corners and jagged edges. This Nesta was no less keen, no less imposing. But there was something about her that was... _soothed_. As though someone had cooled and gentled all that raw pain and blazing anger.

Someone that wasn’t him.

“I can practically _hear_ you brooding,” said Nesta, drawing near.

He gave her a half-hearted grin.

“Not getting cold feet, are you?”

“It’s not that,” he said.

“Then what?” she asked. “Did the happy little circle not enjoy our trick?”

_Happy little circle._

She had used those words a lot when they were together and never in a fond way. It used to set his teeth on edge, the way she would scoff and sneer at his family. _Their_ family. He could never understand why she always tried to distance herself from them.

 _They’re_ your _happy little circle_ , she would say. _Not mine._

Apparently, it didn’t matter that his circle also included her own blood relations. Getting her to join any sort of group event was an Olympic-level challenge. It chafed him every time she said no, as if these family gatherings were a waste of her time. They had endless arguments about it. Cassian often wondered why he even bothered dragging her along, especially when she fought him tooth and nail every step of the way.

But there were no teeth or nails in her words now. Because in that moment, the phrase “happy little circle” was said as a matter of fact. There was no derision, no haughtiness, no sarcasm. There was still a wedge of distance, however. A near palpable sense of “I acknowledge and respect your world, but I am not a part of it.”

The notion bothered him in ways that he couldn’t explain. But now wasn’t the time to air out his grievances.

Instead, he smirked at her and said, “Yeah, they’re pretty pissed. I should show you later.”

“You should,” she said. “We’ll grab dinner. I know a place.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes,” she said. “It usually comes after lunch. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Her brow furrowed in concern as he glanced away. Those killer blue eyes of hers were at full power and he was worried that if she looked too long, she would see just how fucking _inadequate_ he was. He was a bastard nobody. Standing next to her now made it a thousand times more obvious.

Maybe he _was_ getting cold feet.

She cleared her throat.

“We don’t have to do dinner if that’s too...awkward. I know I asked _a lot_ from you today—”  

“Can the bossy bride and her hot groom please take their markers?”

Vassa’s voice echoed imperiously through the megaphone as Nesta’s bridal party sailed away from the stone bridge like a parade of lavender clouds. A few of them glanced his way, but averted their eyes as soon as they caught Nesta glaring. He’d been on the receiving end of that glare before. The one that said, “Proceed at your own peril.”

They stood at their markers. The city’s world-famous sunset making Nesta shine like a thousand-carat diamond. Once upon a time, he had told her that he loved her at this exact same spot. How long ago was that now? A decade? Maybe more? Back then, they were young and full of expectations.

None of those expectations had panned out.

Being here, stuffed into someone else’s suit, made him feel like the punchline of some cosmic joke; a glitch in the matrix. All of the optimism he gathered throughout the day seemed to evaporate under the realization that _he really did_ not _belong here_.

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” she said.

“I think I just might,” he answered.

“You were fine just a minute ago,” she said quietly. “What changed?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m just overthinking this.”

“Overthinking what?”

“Is there a reason you two look like you’re about to say your last words instead of your wedding vows?”

Cassian started as Vassa materialized between them like a referee about to lay down the ground rules. As cute as she was, she should really wear a bell.

“You realize that we’re not _actually_ getting married right?” asked Nesta. “We’re just playing dress-up.”

A strange pang went through him at the words “dress-up.” It had the same impact as a jab to the gut. Nesta was right. This was all just pretend and he really needed to get his shit together. For both their sakes.

“I’ve seen kindergartners perform better than this,” said Vassa. “At least _try_ to act like this is the happiest day of your life. Both of you.” The shuffled uneasily under her discerning gaze. “My advice? Leave everything in the past. All that matters is now. I don’t need either of you to look schmoopy. Just talk about something nice. Something honest.”

She flounced away, directing her staff to reposition the cameras.

“And please stand closer,” she said. “You’re about to get married. Not take each other to prom.”

Nesta cursed under her breath as she shifted towards him. She was close enough that he could smell the jasmine from her bouquet or trace the flower buds threaded into her hair. His fingers twitched with muscle memory. Almost _nothing_ satisfied him more than Nesta’s hair. Playing with it had been one of his favorite things in the entire world. He loved combing out the strands, twisting it into braids, or grabbing whole fistfuls while she...

“Just do it.”

“Hm?” He hoped he didn’t look as dazed as he felt. “Sorry, do what?”

“My hair.” She tugged at a particularly springy curl that that framed her heart-shaped face. The urge to tuck it behind her ear staggered him. “Go ahead. I can tell you want to. You get this glazed look in your eye.”  

“I do not,” he said, even though he knew he did.

But when she tugged that curl again, he knew he was done for.

So he did as she asked and she sighed in contentment, almost leaning into his hand as he grazed the whorl of her ear. He didn’t know if that was for the benefit of their audience, but for now he didn’t care. It was such a small and simple gesture. Something he had done a thousand times when they were a couple. But even with small and simple gestures, you never knew if the next one would be your last.

A moment passed. Then a hundred years.

It was Nesta who spoke first. “You brought me here for our anniversary.”

“Every single one,” he whispered.

“It was two weeks ago,” she added. “The last one. If we stayed together, that is.” She turned her face, glancing at the river below. Its surface was as still as glass, reflecting the setting sun like a mirror. “Do you...do you sometimes wish things had been different?”

 _All the time_  he wanted to say.  

“I thought the exercise was to leave everything in the past?”

“It’s probably better that way,” said Nesta. “But still...it’s hard to forget.”

Regrets piled up between them like mounds of ash. Why couldn’t “starting over” feel like the clean slate it was supposed to? Why couldn’t all hurts just fade with time?  

He leaned down far enough to kiss her, but stopped just shy of her glossy lips.

“I tripped up the steps, remember?”

“What?”

“This bridge. I tripped on that cobblestone right there, because I was nervous as shit.”

“You were?”

“I was about to tell you that I loved you,” he said, grimly. “Yes, I was nervous as shit.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, making her dimple show. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to caress it with his thumb.

“I do remember a lot of stammering that day.”

“I think I was about to have a stroke," he said. "Glad that I amused you though.”

That was the honest-to-god truth. Her smile could have lit up the entire city. He remembered wanting to be the cause of them forever. He would hoard each one for a rainy day.

“You’ve always been a cheeky little shit,” she said. “It was nice seeing _you_ flustered for once.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flustered, Ms. Archeron.”

“Mrs.” she corrected. “In this pretend scenario we’re playing, I’m Mrs. Archeron and you also took my name.”

“Is that so?”

Funny. He actually _did_ plan on taking her last name if they ever got married.

“I thought it would be more….awful to talk to you like this,” she said. “I guess we really have moved on.”

Another click. Another shutter. Another meaningful silence.

“Yeah, I guess we have,” he said.

“What the hell, Vassa?”

Their peaceful tableau curled away like burning paper when a tall man walked onto their set. Like Vassa, his hair was red. But deeper, golden—like a fox’s. Cassian tensed at the man’s sneering, half-cruel expression. Irrationally, it made Cassian want to shove Nesta behind him. The only thing that stopped him from doing so was the certainty that she would toss him into the river if he tried.

“Nice of you to finally show up to work, Eris,” said Nesta dryly.  

_So this was Eris._

“I see you’re quick to replace me, Nesta dear.” He pouted as he placed a hand over his heart. “My feelings are _crushed_.”

Nesta snorted. “As if you had them. And for the record, I didn’t replace you. Vassa did.”

“You’re damn right I did,” cried Vassa. “Where the hell have you been all day, jackass?”

He shrugged. “One of my brothers had a thing.”

Nesta and Vassa exchanged a glance, as if to say “ _of course_.”

“Hey there, Eris Vanserra.”

He reached out to shake his hand. It took a moment for Cassian to take it because he wasn't sure if Eris was actually being sincere.

“Thanks for putting up with the Ice Queen and the Fire Bitch,” Eris added, winking.

“We resent that,” the aforementioned deadpanned.

There was a rhythm to their teasing, Cassian realized. A friendly rhythm that reminded himself and Rhys, or himself and Morrigan. It was the assurance between people who were close friends; who were perhaps drawn together because they were misfits everywhere else. It made Cassian feel even more out of place; even more isolated.

Was this how Nesta felt whenever she was with his family?

The realization astounded him, changing the molecular structure of a thousand different memories. It was like adding color to black and white photographs. Every clash, every fight, every screaming match that erupted between them...had Nesta just felt _lonely_ all that time? Had she perhaps felt like he was always choosing his own family’s happiness, while disregarding hers?

It was a miracle that he could still draw air into his lungs.

_How could he not see it? How could he not know?_

“Might as well take the day off, Eris,” said Vassa. “Your replacement is doing just fine. We’re almost done in fact. All the _important_ shots were done today.”

“So I dragged my fine ass out here for nothing?”

“You can grab dinner with us later,” said Nesta. “I was thinking of taking Cassian to that bistro downtown.”

“Ugh, I hate that place,” said Eris. “But for you, I’d go.”

He gave her an obnoxious wink that made Cassian want to punch something. His only consolation was that Nesta was immune to this particular man’s “charm.”

 _You don’t belong here_ , his subconscious taunted. _You don’t belong here. You don’t belong here._

_You’re an accessory._

_She doesn’t need you._

_Get out before you cause any more damage._

“Actually, I think I might call it a day,” said Cassian, wincing inwardly at his own awkwardness. “It’s getting late and I have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” asked Nesta.

“Yeah,” he said, ignoring her concern. “I, ah...I’d better go.”

He pretended not to hear Nesta calling him on the way back to her trailer.

“Idiot,” said Vassa, smacking Eris with a rolled up newspaper. “You scared him away!”

* * *

He was about to hail a cab from the park entrance when he realized Nesta had followed him. She was still wearing her wedding gown, looking for all the world like a desperate bride trying to win back an errant groom. A few onlookers exchanged curious murmurs. One of them snapped a photo that was probably going to be all over Twitter. _Christ._

“Can you at least tell me why you’re leaving?” she asked.

He stilled.

_Don’t walk away from me!_

There were only two people in his life that walked away from him for good: his father and the woman standing before him. Although to be fair, he walked away from her first. The only good that came from today was the realization of just how badly he failed her. Of course, Nesta had left him. He couldn’t give her what she needed. How could he possibly explain this to her?

“I thought we were friends,” she said. “I thought we were starting over.”

“I don’t know if we can be ever friends, Nesta.”

“Oh.”  

The words shattered between them like broken glass.

He wished he could rewind time and say them all over again differently. He wished for a lot of things.

“Nesta. That’s not what I meant.”

She nodded stiffly.

“You’re right,” she said. “This was a mistake.”

She took a step back from him, her face a familiar mask of ice hiding a tempest of emotions. He knew that mask well. It was a sign that the battle was over, though neither side had won.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  

“So am I.”


End file.
